


It Was The Tea (The Scheming Remix)

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, M/M, Mpreg, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of sophia_clark’s  <a>Bird Watching</a>, in which Draco isn’t seeing Potter at all, but his mother is just as single-minded as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was The Tea (The Scheming Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sophia_Clark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Clark/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bird Watching](https://archiveofourown.org/works/442388) by [Sophia_Clark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Clark/pseuds/Sophia_Clark). 



> This is definitely a bit crackier and looser than what I usually write. I had a lot of fun with this, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Originally [here](http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/49614.html) at hd_remix.

“There’s something wrong with the tea,” Draco says, wrinkling his nose. “I think it’s poisoned.”

“Draco!” Mother scolds, her eyes flying wide. “The tea is perfectly fine.” She pointedly takes a sip from her own cup. 

“ _Your_ tea may be fine. Mine, however, is not.” He scowls down at the amber liquid in his cup. It’s perfectly clear, as usual, but much too bitter. It tastes like something invisible has been mixed in, like poison. 

Mother sighs. “Honestly.” She flicks her wand and Draco’s cup wriggles itself out of his grasp, the tea sloshing about inside but not actually dripping over the rim. The cup flies over to Mother and she reaches out to take it. She sends Draco a pointed look. 

“No!” he practically shouts. “If it’s poisoned—”

“Which I’m sure it isn’t. Besides, you’ve already had a sip, and since you’re not writhing on the floor, I should be safe, shouldn’t I?” She sends him a half smile, and Draco blanches. 

She’s right. He’s already drunk from the poisoned cup. Is he dying? He quickly examines himself mentally for signs of illness or deterioration, but finds none. He feels exactly as he did when he sat down at the table to find that Mother had decided to make this tea a forum in which to discuss Draco’s potential bride. That is to say, he feels annoyed, terrified, and rather desperate to not be here. 

He watches carefully as Mother takes a sip. Her lips purse, and she eyes the cup. 

“You haven’t added enough sugar,” she chides. “Don’t scare me like that.” With a flick of her wand, the cup dances through the air back to Draco. 

He snatches at it and manages to slosh scalding tea across his fingers. He grits his teeth and sets the cup down. 

“Drink,” Mother says commandingly, and so Draco takes another sip. Still too bitter. He draws the sugar bowl across the table. 

As he practically pours the crystals into the cup, Mother lifts a photograph from the table. The woman in it winks coyly at Draco, and he casts his gaze to his tea, feeling physically ill. 

“Now,” Mother says, forcefully cheerful, “let’s see who we have here. I’m sure we’ll find you a lovely bride, my dear.”

Draco sips his tea again. Too sweet. 

Damn.

 

-

 

“I’m going fucking mad!” Draco exclaims as he tumbles out of the Floo. He cleans his robes with a flick of his wand and shoves his hair out of his face. He really should start using cream in it again; if only it didn’t emphasize his forehead so. 

“Don’t curse in front of my son,” Pansy reminds him absently from the couch. She shifts Bernie in her arms, and he murmurs. 

Draco sighs. “He’s asleep. And there isn’t a single thing wrong with his life. Mine, however…” He flops dramatically down on the sofa next to Pansy, jolting her. 

She sends him a burning look and carefully stands. “Don’t you _dare_ wake him.” She strides out of the room and Draco waves a lazy hand after her. 

“Bye, Bernie,” he calls. 

Pansy walks back in a moment later, sans child. She settles down onto the couch and eyes Draco. “I may just knock you out one night and have ‘Bernard’ tattooed on your forehead. It’s certainly big enough.”

Draco gasps and sits up. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me,” she snarks at him, then lets a smile touch her face. “What’s wrong with your life now?”

Draco falls back on the couch and throws his hands over his head. “Mother wants me to marry,” he moans.

“Hmph. Well, high time. You’re almost twenty-three, Draco. You need to find a wife, and soon. I’m surprised she’s let you run loose for so long.”

“Run loose? Hardly!” He rolls his head to look at Pansy. She leans on her hand, amusement in her eyes. “I haven’t travelled the world, or had seven torrid and infamous affairs; I haven’t even had _one_.” His voice rises on the last word and he winces. _Don’t be such a child, Draco_ , he thinks to himself. 

“I just… wish I’d done more. Now I have to pick a wife, and that’s it. I’m done for the rest of my life.”

“You can always have an affair,” she remarks. 

“Never. I take my vows seriously, you know that.”

The smile vanishes from Pansy’s face, and she sends him a sharp look. “You need to get laid,” she says. “Before this whole marriage thing. If you take your _vows_ so seriously.”

Draco winces inwardly. “It’s not that easy, you know that. I can’t just go pick up a girl somewhere, like other men my age.”

“Oh? So guys don’t stand on street corners?”

This time his wince is physical. “No! No, I don’t want that. I… I want something…”

Pansy sighs. “Draco,” she snaps, cutting him off. “If you were so keen on finding a relationship on your own, you would have found a man by now. As it is, you’ve lazed around and left it too late. Let your mother do her job.”

“I’ve ruined my life, haven’t I?” he groans, pressing his palms against his eyes. He feels the sofa cushions shift and, a moment later, hears a soft clinking. He opens his eyes to see Pansy setting a pair of wine glasses and a glass bottle onto the table. 

“Not quite yet,” she says with a smile. “You still have me, don’t you?”

The cork flies out of the bottle with a loud pop, and the wine pours itself. Pansy reaches out for a glass and hands it to Draco. He sits and takes it, cradling the rim of the glass under his nose. 

“It won’t be half as bad as you think,” Pansy says. 

Draco sighs and sends her a smile. “I hope so,” he says, and tips the glass back. 

 

-

 

“No, you can’t—” she hisses. 

Clearly, Pansy is not as drunk as Draco. This should be rectified immediately. He reaches out for the wine on the coffee table, but finds that it’s gone. In fact, the entire table has gone. Where is it? Draco turns, realizes that he’s standing, and promptly tangles himself up in his own feet. Pansy catches him and holds him tightly. 

Ah, yes. He’d been going home. Well, if he’s stumbling this much, it’s probably for the best. 

Draco carefully levers himself up and centers himself. There; he can stand without help. Pansy steps around and looks straight into his eyes. 

“You,” she says with the steadiness of someone unwilling to admit how much she’s drunk, “are not going to Apparate. I refuse to clean up any body parts you leave lying around when you splinch yourself.”

Draco frowns at her. “I have never splinched myself.” He’d heard that Weasley had done it, back during the War. Draco wonders what he’s missing now.

“I honestly don’t care what piece of himself Weasley cared to misplace, and don’t think I don’t know which one you’re considering,” Pansy snarks, shoving a small round object into Draco’s hands. 

He blinks. He hadn’t thought he’d said that aloud. He looks down at the pot of Floo powder Pansy has forced upon him. Then up at Pansy again. 

“You’re going to Floo home,” she says. “I won’t let you Apparate, but you’re not going to stay here and bitch tomorrow morning about your hangover with Bernie around. Go home, Draco.”

He smiles at her. “Yeah. Thanks.” He shifts the pot of powder and steps forward, pulling Pansy into a tight hug. 

She sighs against him, relaxing, and presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’re going to be fine,” she says. “This marriage thing is going to work out, and you’ll be disgustingly happy. I know it.”

He laughs and steps back, tipping the pot just enough so that powder dusts Pansy’s shoulder. He smiles guiltily and pours more into his palm. She flicks her wand, and the fire springs to life. 

Draco steps towards the mantle, then pauses and looks back. “I hope you’re right,” he says. “Otherwise I’ll be sleeping over here a lot.”

“You’d better not,” she laughs. 

Draco trades a smile with her and then tosses the powder into the fireplace. It flares up green, and he steps into the flames.

 

-

 

This is _not_ Malfoy Manor. Draco sighs and pushes up from the back of the chair he’d nearly fallen over. The man sitting in it scowls up at him, and Draco murmurs apologies. 

Home, home. He needs to get home. He stands, too fast, and ends up stumbling to the side. A hand catches and steadies him, and Draco reaches out to clasp whoever it is. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Need to go home now.” He wants to get in bed and sleep this off; it’s his own damn fault that he ended up here, anyway. It would be best to cause as little damage as possible tonight. 

“No,” the person holding him laughs. “I don’t think so. You’re far too drunk. Sit down, Malfoy.”

The man guides Draco towards an empty table, and as he’s poured into a seat, he twists to look up and see who’s been helping him. The man slides into the empty seat across from him. 

Oh, _of course_ it’s Potter. 

Draco half-smothers his groan and grits his teeth. 

“What are you doing here?” Potter asks, taking the words right from Draco’s mouth. He covers his lips, just to be safe. 

“Obviously this is all a mistake,” he murmurs, twisting in his seat to look around the room. “I would never intentionally come to… a pub like this on purpose.” He wrinkles his nose at the drear surroundings. This must be the Leaky Cauldron, which he’s heard about, but never been in. 

“Well, you’re here now,” Potter says, leaning back. “Would you rather Tom throw you out onto the street?”

Draco whips back around, his hands flying from his mouth and landing on the table with a loud smack. “They wouldn’t dare.”

Potter laughs, his head falling backward to expose the line of his neck. The other witches and wizards in the pub turn to look, and Draco sinks low in his seat. He really shouldn’t be seen here. 

Potter’s laughter calms and he leans forward, grinning at Draco. Somehow, Draco finds himself wanting to smile back, and he has to force the expression away. 

“If they throw you out, I’ll go, too,” Potter says. “You know, can I call you Draco?”

Draco blinks. His name sounds strange coming from Potter’s mouth. But also kind of nice. “Yeah.”

“Great,” Potter says. “You have to call me Harry, then.”

Draco doesn’t think so. Potter will always be Potter – to him, at least. But he nods all the same. 

“So. Tell me, Draco. What have you been up to?”

Draco blinks, opens his mouth, and then closes it when he can’t think of anything to say. “I’ve discovered the most lovely wine,” he finally settles on, a bit sheepish. 

Potter laughs harder than before, and his chair tilts back under him. Draco lets his smile free, because Potter isn’t looking, and what harm can it do, anyway? Maybe Potter isn’t half-bad after all. 

Now that he’s matured a bit, of course. 

 

-

 

“Okay, let’s go,” Potter says, and Draco lifts his brow. 

“Where?” he asks archly. He isn’t drunk enough anymore to need _Potter’s_ help home. 

Potter stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling and groaning. Draco flushes and stands abruptly. His chair clatters across the stones behind him, and he tugs the ends of his cloak to free them. 

“Well,” he says. “As nice as this has been, I have to go. My parents will be worried about me.” He turns and walks toward the door, much steadier than he’d been when he arrived – sweet Merlin, could Potter ramble on and on. Draco’s quite forgotten anything that they talked about, but thinking more clearly now. 

“Your parents?” Potter asks, apparently right behind Draco. 

He smothers his curse and settles letting the door swing shut on Potter as he leaves the pub. 

“Aren’t you a bit too old to worry about what they think?” Potter goes on, apparently undeterred. Draco scowls and turns back. 

“I didn’t think you cared,” he hisses. “Just leave me alone, and we won’t bother each other again.” He prepares to Apparate, but Potter seizes his arm. 

“Of course I care!” Potter exclaims. “We just had a wonderful—” He cuts himself off and snaps his teeth together and Draco, suspicious, narrows his eyes at Potter. 

“Had a wonderful _what_?” he asks dangerously. Potter _cannot_ have been hinting at what Draco thinks he was hinting at. 

“Conversation,” Potter replies, deadpan. 

After a moment of examining Potter’s innocent expression, Draco yanks his arm from Potter’s grasp and steps away. He takes a deep breath, focuses his mind, and—

Potter shoves him back, off balance, and against the pub’s stone wall. _Damn it_ , that hurts. He winces and opens his eyes, ready to spit at Potter and his hand already clenching around his wand and ready to draw it, when he sees just how close Potter’s gotten to him, and how fiercely determined his eyes are. 

Draco’s stomach drops as he realizes what Potter wants – he wants it, too, of course, though somehow he’s never quite gotten around to thinking about it this way. It’s surprising, and thrilling, and Draco has only an instant to feel sharp arousal swoop down to grasp him in its talons before Potter leans in and kisses him, all clacking teeth and bruising lips, mashing the back of Draco’s head against the stones. 

The wine still has claim on the edges of his senses, and the pain is dulled slightly by that. Draco opens his mouth and kisses back, letting Potter’s tongue inside and stroking Potter’s lips with his own. Potter tastes of beer and hops, sweet candies and woodfires. He tastes of the pub, and he tastes _wonderful_. 

Draco reaches up and pulls him close, but Potter pulls back, taking Draco with him and somehow managing to keep the kiss intact, and spins them both into a dizzying, stretching Apparation that steals Draco’s breath completely. 

At least, he thinks it was the spell.

 

-

 

Draco is so glad to be back in his bed; it’s so much more comfortable than Potter’s.

He burrows down into the blankets and squeezes his eyes tight. His arse hurts like hell, and his lips are sore. Just shifting makes everything twinge, but not altogether in a bad way. The pain is a constant reminder that he _slept with Potter_ last night. 

It was impossible.

It was mad. 

Yet, it was true. 

He muffles his smile in his pillow. He can’t wait to tell Pansy. She’ll call him a lair at first, sure, but she’ll come around. And when she does – oh, he just can’t wait to tell her all about it. 

He hears his door open and feigns sleep. 

“Darling,” Mother says. Her skirts swish across the floor and Draco ignores her. She settles down onto the edge of the bed and lays a hand on his hip. “What were you doing out so late last night?”

_Damn Merlin, how does she always know?_ Forced to give up the pretense, Draco shifts and mutters, “What?”

“You heard me,” Mother says, pressing firmly down. Draco shoves the blankets back and glares at her, half-wincing away from the bright morning light. 

After a moment, he sighs. “I was drinking with Pansy, if you must know.”

She hums. “And how did you get home if you were out drinking until three in the morning with Ms Parkinson? You must have been rather unsteady.”

That was putting it mildly. Sometimes it drove Draco mad, how Mother could never seem to say things outright. “I wasn’t _drinking_ until three,” he ground out. “We talked, too.” He _certainly_ couldn’t tell his mother about what had happened with Potter. He didn’t want to get near that subject. 

“I hope you aren’t too ill to look at the dossiers I’ve prepared. Once you’re up and dressed, we can talk about some promising wives over breakfast.”

Draco bites back a groan. “That sounds wonderful,” he says humorlessly, and pushes himself up to a sitting position. He winces despite himself and Mother sends him a glance that looks oddly hungry. 

“Are you sure you’re quite well?” she inquires innocently. 

Brows knitting, Draco nods. “Soon as you leave, I’ll get up and dress, and meet you downstairs.”

Mother casts her gaze away and stands smoothly. She sweeps across the room, barely pausing at the door. “Ten minutes, Draco,” she says, and then is gone. 

Draco buries his face in his hands and tugs at the roots of his hair viciously. 

 

-

 

“I said ten minutes, not, ‘please take a stroll through the gardens’.”

Mother’s voice snaps out across the flowers, and Draco winces. He didn’t think he’d be found so quickly. 

“Must we talk about girls so early in the day?” he asks plaintively. 

“They are _women_ ,” Mother says, steel in her tone. 

Draco nods and turns away from the feral roses he’d been contemplating. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just that I don’t know any of them. If I did, I think it would be much easier. As it is, I feel like we’re thinking of buying another elf. It’s so…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Distasteful.” 

He knows Potter, at least. Knows him far too well for his own good. 

Draco starts inwardly. Why is he thinking about Potter like this? He shouldn’t even _consider_ marrying Potter (never mind that the man’s single, and has been since the record-setting-for-the-Daily-Prophet-row-with-the-Weasley-girl Incident). Oh _Merlin_. He’s mad. Draco has always known this day would come, but hoped for a few more years, at least.

“Draco,” Mother sighs, and he looks up into her weary face. It suddenly hits him that she isn’t young anymore, and he isn’t a child. He can’t be having these ridiculous thoughts about Potter. He’s getting married, after all.

“I’m sorry,” he says, feeling genuinely terrible somewhere to the south of his heart. “I’ll look at the dossiers.”

Mather pauses for a moment. “I know that this is hard for you, darling.” She reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him back towards the house. “We haven’t spoken much about marriage – not with… everything else that has gone on in this house.”

The Manor looms over them as they approach, and Draco feels a chill pass over him that he’d half forgotten, and would have willingly banished forever if he’d been capable of such magic. 

“You must be strong,” she continues. “And I know that though it seems terrible now, this marriage will make you happy.”

Draco isn’t so sure. The thought of living in a manse like the Manor, cold and empty except for a woman that Draco hardly knows, is less than appealing. The only thing that brightens the image is the sound of laughter, high and wild; his children, should he have them. _Yes, having children might be worth this whole mess_ , he thinks quietly, and half smiles. 

For the first time, he finds himself looking forward to looking at pictures of women. 

 

-

 

Draco covers his mouth to hide another unwelcome belch. 

“I am so--” He has to stop and hold his breath for a second. “So sorry.”

“Of course,” Astoria says delicately, the soul of courtesy except for the fact that she is carefully edging backwards on the other side of the table. 

Draco puts his fork down, giving up the pretense of eating. This dinner couldn’t be going worse. He feels spectacularly horrible and seems to be scaring away the first girl of the lot that seems even partially suitable. 

He shoves away from the table suddenly as nausea burbles within him. Astoria flinches back, blinking in surprise. He opens his mouth to apologize again, then claps his hand tight against it and rushes away to the bathroom. 

Once there, he vomits into the sink until his stomach is empty and spasming, then runs the water cold and fast, splashing it over his face. He gulps in air, waiting for his stomach to settle. 

He should get home to his potions. Mother will know what to do. He can’t believe that today, of all days, he’s _sick_.

Draco walks back into the restaurant to find his table deserted, Astoria’s bag and coat gone. He can’t blame her, really. 

He sighs and gestures for the waiter. The man glides over, his suave movements mocking Draco as he leans heavily against the back of his chair. 

“Put it on my tab,” Draco says, glaring. 

Unfazed, the waiter nods. “Of course, Mr Malfoy.” He glides away.

Draco reaches down and drags his coat up off the back of his chair and over his arm. He pauses, takes a deep breath to focus his mind, and Apparates home. 

Then promptly dry heaves over the sitting room rug. 

“Oh!” Mother exclaims, rising from her seat. Draco sees the book she’d been reading slide, open-faced, onto the floor. “What happened, my dear?”

Draco struggles to stand, clinging to her. “Sick,” he manages. 

“I can see that.” With a tight grip, she guides him out of the room. 

They move towards the stairs, and thus, the bedrooms. Draco can’t wait to be in his bed. He should have just Apparated straight there, really. Can’t think why he didn’t in the first place. 

“Did you at least make a good impression on Miss Greengrass?”

Draco attempts to send his mother an eloquent, and exasperated, look. He isn’t sure it gets across, but she does stop asking questions. 

 

-

 

Draco lowers himself carefully back into his bed and pulls up the sheets. He feels _horrific_. 

“Something is _wrong_ ,” Mother insists, feeling his forehead. “I’ve given you every antiemetic potion that we have and you haven’t stopped throwing up!”

“M’kay,” Draco mumbles. He feels terrible, and at the moment, he’d give anything to have Mother take the pain away, but he also thinks that if she says anything else to him, he’ll throw up again. Perhaps on her.

He curls around the pillow, not bothering to pull the blankets up around himself. He’ll just get up later to be sick. Already, his stomach is beginning to clench. 

He feels Mother rise, surging up from the bed. 

“Lucius!” she calls, striding towards the door. “Come out of your office this instant! Your son is _dying_!”

She might be right, Draco thinks. But there’s no way Father will come out, not even for his son’s imminent death. Draco hasn’t seen him outside of his study for months. The nausea surges within him.

_Oh_ , why won’t this just stop?

 

-

 

“Well,” the doctor groans, shifting in his seat on the edge of Draco’s bed. He stops, coughs, and rummages in his cloak for something. 

“For _Merlin’s_ sake,” Mother hisses. “What’s wrong with him? What do we need to do?”

“Well,” he begins again, and Draco shifts uncomfortably where he’s propped up against the headboard. 

He feels halfway better – wrung out and aching, but no longer nauseous. It’s a huge improvement, in his opinion. Yet the Mediwizard hasn’t doesn’t anything to help. Just shown up, hemmed and hawed, waved his wand all over Draco’s room, and now refuses to say very much at all. 

The man glances at Mother warily, then back to Draco. Draco’s brow furrows. “Just say it. What’s wrong with me?”

He should get the bad news over with if he’s going to take a wife. No one will have him if he’s contagious. 

The Mediwizard huffs a sigh. “You’re pregnant,” he says, and the words jolt through Draco like a misfired spell. “Congratulations. I’ll arrange for a prenatal appointment at St. Mungos, but after that, you’ll have to schedule any further appointments yourself. I recommend you consult with a prenatal specialist as well, as pregnancies of this sort are delicate things.”

Draco isn’t listening. He’s watching his mother instead, whose eyes fly wide at the news. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips and then vanishes. 

“Mother,” Draco grinds out, forcing the word through tense lips. He’s heard about male pregnancies, though only through rumor. They’re rare, completely magical, and can only be induced by potions. Draco _can’t_ be pregnant, because he never took any potions. “Why do you look so happy?”

The Mediwizard pats his robes and stands. “I’ll… be going, then.” He shuffles backwards out the door, but Draco still isn’t paying him any attention.

His mother blinks, and her face goes blank. “Draco, what do you mean? I’m happy for you.”

“No, you aren’t.” Something empty curls in the pit of his stomach. He wraps his arms around himself. “You’re smiling like one of your plans has worked out. Mother, _what have you done?_ ”

“Oh, Draco,” she sighs, casting a glance around and finally letting it settle on his hands. “I just want you to be happy.”

“Did you do this?” His voice is rising, reaching for hysterics. 

“Well…”

“Mother!”

“Yes, alright, I did. I gave you the potion in your tea.”

“My tea!”

“Of course, but I didn’t force you to have sex; that was your choice.”

“Mother!” Draco burrows down under the covers, pulling them up over his head. He feels an entirely new kind of mortified, horrified, and a bit violated. Not, he must say, in a good way. 

Mother’s hand rests on the covers, and he shoves it away. 

“Darling, I knew you’d never take a _woman_ for a spouse, but I knew that if I pushed you, you’d do something on your own, and you _have_.”

“Get out!” he shouts at her. 

“You’ll have your own family now—”

There’s only one person who could possibly be the father, and Draco can’t think about that at this moment. It’s too mad, too ridiculous, and he can’t stand to even be near Mother right now.

“Get out!”

 

-

 

Draco stands self-consciously before Potter’s door, waiting for it to open. He glances up and down the hallway, but there’s no one there. The knowledge doesn’t stop his foot from tapping impatiently. 

The door swings open to reveal Potter, staring surprisedly. He’s wearing some kind of ludicrous Muggle shirt with a logo written across the front, and his lips are parted. He looks wonderful. 

At the sight of Draco, he leans against the doorframe. He smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling with welcome.

Draco forces a smile in return. “I have something to tell you,” he says. 

“Oh,” Potter says. “Okay. Well, that’s fine. But, ah, why have you got all these bags?” He gestures towards the suitcases at Draco’s feet. 

“Didn’t I mention?” Draco drawls. He steps into the flat, past Potter. With a flick of his wand, his bags leap up and dance in after him. “I’m moving in.”

“What?!”


End file.
